


Assassins

by Shadow_Chaser



Series: Letters Home [11]
Category: Assassin's Creed, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because Ben is not that stupid to break cover, Ben's first assassination mission, Cat and mouse Assassin-style hunt, Episode Fix-it, Episode: s03e03 Benediction, Episode: s03e04 Hearts and Minds, Fix-it fic for primarily Episode: s03e04 Hearts and Minds, Gen, It's also a bit of a Assassin!Fail! for Ben, Still features slightly BAMF!Semi-Assassin-trained Ben
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-09 03:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6887767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Chaser/pseuds/Shadow_Chaser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is always a cost when becoming an Assassin as Ben learns the hard way.  He also learns, that being an assassin, is not as easy as one thought.  Fix-it fic for Episode 4 "Hearts and Minds" of Season 3 while keeping continuity and in the AC universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

The plan went, in Caleb's whaling words, pear-shaped the moment he had let his anger fuel his indignant rage at hearing Reverend Worthington speak his damning words. He had not realized the extent of how much intelligence the Reverend had been feeding to Andre from confessions and the like until he had heard him give the precise location of Washington's camp moving to nearby Middlebrook. He had not known how much his rage could fuel his inherent desire to see the man dead until he had pulled the trigger to Worthington's taunt about Washington being a fool. They had both stared mutely at his futile attempts to stem the blood flowing from his fatal shot before the Reverend had fallen to the ground, dead with the last rattle of his traitorous breath.

And that was when Ben realized the folly of his mistake.

 _Make it look like an accident_ , Washington had cautioned when they had initially discussed the plan and Ben had spent some time planning it before stalking the Reverend out of the camp the next day. His plan had initially been to let the Reverend go to the drop point to leave his missive and he would ambush him there, shooting him in the back

to pretend that brigands had gotten the drop on him. There was the option to shoot him from the front, but Ben had discarded it. He had only considered it again as he realized how far off the path they had gone and the lack of leaf and tree cover would not allow him to approach the Reverend from behind.

And so he had confronted the Reverend, but he had not meant to get that close until he wanted to hear what the Reverend had gotten from his latest confessions. It had been damning and it had filled him with rage. They were from the commanders who knew where they were going next to settle camp.

Ben grimaced, holstering his pistol as he stared at Worthington's body. There was still a way to salvage it as he glanced around him. He could smell the distant body of water, more than likely a river of sorts. Worthington could be buried in there and no one would be any wiser. The only issue was the blood on the leaves on the ground, but Ben could easily hide that once he disposed of the body. He took a few steps closer and knelt down next to the man's body.

“May God find you forgiveness in heaven for your deeds,” he murmured quietly as he reached out and drew the man's eyes closed. He vaguely remembered his father mentioning to pay due to the dead when they killed, but also remembered that his father had said that he rarely did it only because of his sharpshooting skills. It was only Assassins who killed up close and personal with their blades or with a musket ball that prayed or said words to the dead and treated them with respect. Ben could only wish that he had heeded his father's words and killed the Reverend from afar, but what was done was done.

Pushing himself up from the ground, he gathered the Reverend's body with his own and started to drag him towards the body of water he knew was nearby.

* * *

Ben was beginning to realize why Assassins left their bodies in the open, or at least immediately disappeared when a kill was publicly executed. Dragging Reverend Worthington's body towards the water was hard work. It also did not help that the Reverend was a lot heftier than he first appeared and that compounded Ben's efforts to quickly dispose of the body. It was hardly his first kill, but as Ben maneuvered the body towards the water, he realized that it was his first _assassination_. He supposed that as far as first assassinations went, it was not that bad. If he had killed Worthington on the road instead of at his drop point, it would have been much easier for him to just leave the body like it had been ambushed by brigands. He would have to re-think his plan next time something like this happened.

He was only lucky that there was a body of water to dispose the Reverend's body near, otherwise, he knew his task would have been much harder. As he flipped and pushed the Reverend's body away from him, he absently put his hand in his pocket where he kept the Reverend's cross. It would be proof to Washington that he had killed him and also, Ben could feel his father's words weighing down on him. It was not the words of an Assassin, but rather his father's words as a fellow man of the cloth. He knew he would have to write his father to absolve himself of the slight guilt he had for this deed, and probably ask him how he coped with it all these years. The irony of the situation was not lost on Ben as he realized why his father had become rather distant with him and Samuel when they had been growing up. If this is what it meant to be an Assassin...Ben shuddered a little.

“That's no way to treat a man of God, Tallmadge.”

Ben whirled halfway in the water and froze as he came face to face with the very man who had killed Sackett, and was now pointing a pistol at him. He felt his insides grow cold at the ruthless smile on the man's face and cursed inwardly at his inattention for his surroundings. It had been one of the first lessons he had been taught! And he had been caught woolgathering like a school boy when he should have known better. He shot a look at his pistol, lying aimlessly on the banks and cursed himself for not even having a throwing knife about him.

“No need to move, you're fine there,” Gamble gave him a thin smile and Ben raised his hands up, trying to think of any way he could get to his pistol or something in his surroundings to throw at the man before he could shoot him. He could not see any small pebble or feel any from the cold waters and muck that his feet had sunk into.

“Gamble,” he stated quietly as he saw the man's sinister smile grow a little wider.

“So you do know my name,” the assassin nodded, “spares me the introduction. Tell me Major, what did your lot do with that fool, Shanks? Hang 'im? Enlist him?”

“You're the Reverend's contact,” Ben ignored his question about Shanks as he realized that Gamble must have picked up on the trail of blood left at the drop site, “so he was working for Andre...”

“We were supposed to meet today actually,” Gamble sounded as amicable as the day he had walked into the camp, a snake in the long fields of grass, “looks like you spared me that introduction as well.”

Ben could not help the wash of fear that pulsed through him at how _calm_ Gamble sounded, as if he was just talking about the weather or was even not looking forward to have met Worthington. He swallowed, his throat dry as the assassin raised his pistol up and gestured towards him.

“Move to shore,” Gamble ordered and Ben hesitated.

“Move,” the assassin ordered again and Ben reluctantly complied, digging his feet out of the slit that had sucked his legs towards the marshy ground and moved towards the shore. He hoped that Gamble would let him move closer to his weapons- That thought was immediately broken as he saw the other man move from his high ground towards him at the same time. His options were quickly becoming very limited and he knew time was running out. If only he had not been so lost in his thoughts – the whole mission was a failure at this point, having been detected by the enemy when he had been disposing of a body. He was such an _idiot_!

“That's close enough,” Gamble said and Ben stopped, feeling the chilling dampness of his water-soaked breeches and stockings, his mind wondering if it would be just as cold soon when the bullet entered his heart or his head. “Turn around.”

Ben dry swallowed again, as he slowly turned.

“Kneel down.”

Gamble's words sounded like they were coming from a long tunnel as he grimaced and forced himself to kneel. Ben could feel himself shaking from the cold and from the fear that had gripped him. If only he had gone with his first plan, if only he had not shot Worthington out of anger for his slight against Washington. It felt like what had happened in Wethersfield, but a hundred times worse. This was the very man that had slit Sackett's throat and Ben wanted nothing more than to disarm him, and kill him, but he could not. He had been caught so flat-footed, so off guard that it was _humiliating_ and it ate at him.

 _If this is to be my last act on this good green Earth, then at least it was for the good of the Continental Army and for Washington's sake_ , he thought as he stared out at the banks of the river. _I am so sorry father, I have failed your teachings. I go now to meet Samuel in Heaven._ “I,” he started, feeling his voice shake in fear, “am an officer in the Continental Army. Protocol dictates-”

Ben suddenly felt the flash of pain before blackness claimed him.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

She had introduced herself as Sarah Livingston and he had vaguely remembered introducing himself as Reverend Benjamin Brewster, spinning a story about an ambush by brigands before exhaustion tugged at Ben and he passed out again. When Ben next awoke, it was to something that smelled wonderful and the rumble of his stomach told him that it was more than likely a couple of days since he had eaten. He could feel the press of a cross in his hand before everything came back to him – Sarah, his story as Reverend Brewster. He blinked open his eyes, feeling the rough scratch of exhaustion in them, and gingerly moved, wincing at the lancing pain across his stomach.

“Smells good,” he murmured as he looked up to see Sarah pouring the winter's stew into a bowl before parceling out the helpings.

“Are you strong enough to eat?” she asked as she finished her task.

Ben gingerly nodded, still feeling dizzied and light-headed from the blood loss and tried to push himself further up, breathing out quietly at the movement. He closed his eyes for a second, centering himself before opening them and dragging the blankets off of himself just as Sarah came over and helped him up. Ben nearly staggered to the ground at the sudden weakness of his knees along with the fact that the room seem to spin at a terrible rate. It threatened to overwhelm him, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to put one foot forward until he all but collapsed into the table's chair.

“My apologies, Mrs. Livingston,” he grimaced at the fact that she had nearly bore his full weight.

“Tis all right,” she seemed unruffled by the fact that he had nearly manhandled her and he blinked, puzzled. She seemed uncommonly unconcerned for someone who was married.

“Are you sure your husband won't mind me borrowing his clothes?” he asked, the fabric on his skin feeling cleaner than he was used to. He hoped that these were not Mr. Livingston's best clothes.

“He won't,” Sarah replied, her tone a little sharp and Ben blinked, wondering if he had said something wrong.

“I...I apologize if I had said something to offend you-”

“No,” the woman looked at him as she put some of the winter's stew onto her own plate, “you have not.”

Ben chewed his lower lip for a second before reaching out with his hand in an offer of prayer. He saw her look at his hand for a second before slowly reaching out with her own and he clasped it, mildly surprised at how firm and calloused her fingers were. He did not remember if she had cattle or even farm animals around her property, his mind too muddled from that night he had succumbed to his wound, but he knew what a woman's fingers felt like when they were covered in the callouses of churning butter or doing farm work. Her callouses felt like she had been holding a musket or even a knife instead.

Ben pushed the thought aside as he recited a simple prayer that he had heard his own father speak of so many times, adding in his own health and quick recovery before thanking Sarah for her food and finished the prayer with a quiet 'Amen.' She followed suit and Ben let her fingers go, drawing his hand back as he tentatively picked up a fork and started to eat.

The food tasted wonderful in Ben's mouth and it was only the fact that he was eating in front of a lady that he did not shove all of it down his throat at that very moment. He managed to take sips of the wine that Sarah had poured for him, quenching his parched throat, but also knew that he had to eat slowly even though his body was starving for food. He vaguely remembered Samuel getting injured when they had been children and the physician cautioning not to eat quickly while a body was in recovery.

“Thank you,” he forced himself to stop eating to let his body accept the food and looked up to see a surprised expression on Sarah's face, “for returning the cross to me. It is...of sentimental value.”

Sarah only nodded as she looked down at her plate. He could clearly see that she was warring with something and Ben had a feeling that she was hiding something. What it was, he did not know; but he did know that he was currently as weak as a newborn kitten.

“I...must say...” he began again, “I do not know where I am. When I escaped, I rode as far as I could before I fell off my horse-”

“Franklin,” she quickly replied flicking a look at him before staring back down at her plate, “this is Frankling township.”

“New Jersey...” he breathed out quietly before biting his lip as he considered his options. Franklin was still close to Fairfield where he had ambushed Worthington which meant that he was still in danger. There was no doubt that Gamble was looking for him and every second he was here put Sarah and himself in danger. He licked his lips and forced himself to take another bite, considering his options. He needed bedrest, maybe a day or two, but he also did not know how fast and how wide Gamble was searching for him. He supposed he was lucky that it was raining and some of his horse's tracks were washed away.

Ben opened his mouth again, but before he could even speak a single word, Sarah set her fork down and cleared her throat. He closed his mouth as he looked at her. She was staring down at her plate, her food almost untouched since he had thanked her.

“I...have to confess, Reverend,” she murmured, “my husband will not mind your presence because he is not here-”

“What?”

“He...” she closed her eyes and breathed out quietly before opening them again. Ben was taken aback at the sheer amount of pain in them. “He was killed by brigands, raiders, soldiers who wanted our corn and crops one year ago during the winter. He refused to give it to them, wanting some form of payment and also enough for us to survive. They...they killed him...and took our crops...”

“I'm...sorry,” Ben grimaced, noting the tears forming in the corner of her eyes. He had been informed by Billy Lee during one of their occasional training sessions that Washington had noticed a lot of the supplies had gone missing and had enlisted Connor's help in retrieving them. Connor had discovered that it was one of the Templars, Benjamin Church who had stolen the winter supplies. He surmised that Sarah and her husband's supplies must have been one of those seized by Church.

“When I found you outside in the rain a day ago, I thought...” she looked away, a little uncomfortable, “well...my husband died one year ago to this very date and I thought...you were sent by God for me to atone for being unable to keep him alive. He...he died in my arms, shot much like you had been. That's why...there was a second plate out...”

Ben stopped eating and put his fork down as he swallowed past the small lump of sympathy in his throat. She looked so small, and so alone. “Sarah,” he hesitated on his words for a second before forcing himself to continue as she looked up at him, her eyes bright with tears, “I will pray for him tonight and for your kindness in saving my life.”

She could only nod before picking up her fork again and pushed her food around. Ben stared at her for a little bit, studying her. She was pretty and as much as he suddenly wanted the touch of a woman, his instincts screamed caution; not to mention the still throbbing pain of his gut shot warning him that it was only recently stitched. He could feel a blooming wetness on the cloth covering his wound and knew that they would have to be changed soon. There was also the fact to consider as his cover. His father was a Reverend, and was certainly not celibate considering he and Samuel existed, but he also knew that men of the cloth had higher standards to live up to and perceived needs and wants, especially those of the flesh, were thought of differently for clergymen.

His cover was that of a traveling Reverend and he did not know much about Sarah Livingston at the moment to abandon his cover. There was also the fact that she had practically admitted to a lie, which made him less inclined to trust her at the moment. Considering he was still in Franklin, it meant that Gamble was more than likely looking for him and he needed his strength and health – which meant making sure that Sarah did not betray him nor did he betray his own cover.

Ben picked up his fork again and resumed eating, though he kept a careful eye on the newly discovered widowed Mrs. Livingston.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

“ _And this is the warning?” Ben gestured with a quick flick of his hand and felt the gun shift against his head._

_“Oh no,” Welles' smile was full of teeth, “this is not even close to a warning. This is just a simple execution.”_

_Before Ben could do anything Ames suddenly fired one of his pistols, making him jump a little. But the shot was not directed at him, and a second later, he saw Henry's body pitch forward lifelessly, a bloody hole through the back of his head. He could not stop the gasp that escaped from his lips and even sensed John's shock as the gun digging into his head wavered. Betsy's face was splashed with bits of blood and grey matter as she stared in mute horror at the body of her dead brother. Silence reigned in the clearing for a few seconds before Ben caught the moment when Betsy regained use of her faculties. Her fingers trembled as they touched her mouth, her eyes widened in abject horror-_

_“No, wait! Stop! Stop!” he shouted as he saw Ames about to shoot the pistol and held his hands out in an effort to stop him from shooting Betsy. “She's innocent! She's not a part-”_

_“She's a witness,” Welles cut him off softly, “and you dragged her into this yourself Major-”_

_“Please...please!” Ben had never thought to resort to begging, but he took a step forward, ignoring the push of John's gun into the back of his head to stop him from moving another step, “Please don't shoot her, okay? Don't...for the love of God, don't-”_

_His words stuttered to a halt at the sudden banging discharge of Ames' pistol going off. Betsy's chest suddenly bloomed red as she fell to the ground with a sudden sharp cry before falling silent._

Ben's eyes snapped open at the cold touch of small fingers caressing his cheek and jaw before they were placed on his forehead. For a moment, he thought he saw Betsy Adamson's face above his before another blink of his eyes resolved the image into that of Sarah Livingston's concerned gaze.

“You've a minor fever,” she murmured quietly, her cold fingers lifting from his forehead before she moved away.

Ben could not help the shiver that ran through him as he blinked again and rubbed his eyes, wincing at the lancing pain to his side from the movement he made. He did feel a little off, as if his body was just a bit too warm, yet cold, the prickly sensation of the woolen blankets covering him scratching in such a way that it was uncomfortable. He huddled deeper in his blankets, before a damp warm cloth was placed on his forehead and he blearily looked up to see Sarah's gaze back on him.

“My mother sweated the fever out of us,” her mouth turned into a small frown, “it will not feel comfortable, but it will help.”

Ben nodded as she sat back and he realized that she had pulled her chair up close to his bed. It was also then that he noticed she had her bible on her lap and surmised that she must have been reading it while he had slept fitfully. The sensation of a minor fever was familiar to Ben, having suffered something similar when he was shot in the shoulder two years ago. The doctor had only prescribed rest, bandages, and some hot food when he could before he had left. The only saving grace was that General Scott had allowed him to stay in in the house he had occupied, he supposed as a testament to his escape from Robert Rogers and his Queen's Rangers. He hoped the fever would pass soon, but he also knew that sometimes, when a wounded soldier incurred a fever, it did not pass and the wounded man succumbed to the heat of the hell-fire that ravaged his body.

“You sounded if you had a nightmare,” Sarah started quietly, seeing that he was still awake.

Ben wanted to turn and sleep some more, but he realized that he had been staring at her without any comment or noise and she had took that to mean he was willing to talk. He licked his lips, his throat a little parched before she reached over and tilted a cup at him. He drank it without comment, a little surprised that it was water instead of wine, but it soothed his parched throat nonetheless.

“I...had failed to save someone,” the dream was oddly vivid, as if he had been back at Wethersfield, but looking on the whole scene itself in ghostly form. He remembered that his phantom limbs had refused to move, as if he was sluggishly moving through deep waters.

“They...were possessed?” Sarah's eyes had widened a little in alarm and Ben shook his head.

“No,” he replied, “just an innocent in the wrong place. She and her brother...they had been taken hostage by enemy soldiers who wanted nothing more than to see blood shed...” Even though he had admitted to Washington that the ambush in Wethersfield had been for him, he still felt guilty for involving Betsy Adamson in all of it. He understood that one might have mistaken her brother Henry since he was a Continental soldier, but Betsy had been completely innocent from the horrors of war.

If only he had been more vigilant, had been more aware that he had been targeted and that Ames and Welles were willing to ruthlessly use his men and their families as leverage. If only he had been more mindful of his training...if only he had known that the Templars would target him even though he was not part of the Assassin Brotherhood. The Templars and the Assassins and their damning secret war...using the Continentals and even the British in such a way to further their own goals. He curled a fist underneath his blankets and looked away, frustration filling him.

Ben was a little surprised when he suddenly felt her hand reach under the covers for his own and absently grasped his hand as she pulled it out. He could feel his skin prickle uncomfortably in its own feverish way at the sudden exposure from its hot-cold warmth of the blankets into the air. His fingers automatically curled around hers, as she rubbed his knuckles.

“You,” he looked back to see Sarah staring at him, a gentle expression on her face, “are a man of God. You could not know what sways the hearts and minds of those who would commit sins in the name of Satan. The blood that was shed is on the guilt of those rebels, not you-”

“R-Rebels,” Ben stuttered out, but she seemed to not have noticed his stuttering as she nodded and continued.

“You are not the only one who had been affected by their war against the Crown, wielding Satan's words and rebelling against the law of the land and becoming nothing more than those savages,” she said. It took every effort on Ben's part to resist pulling his hand out of hers as realization dawned on him.

She was a Tory.

He was as sure of it as the day he had sworn to be an officer in the Continental Army. Something of his realization must have shown on his face as she frowned a little.

“Reverend?” she asked, her fingers stopping their motion.

Ben thought fast as he cleared his throat a little. “It is nothing,” he shook his head a little, “just troublesome thoughts-”

“I did not mean to trouble your thoughts further,” Sarah looked aghast and Ben realized it was the wrong thing to say.

“No, no,” he tried to reassure her, moving his other hand out from under the covers and patted their clasped hands gently, wincing a little at the twisting movement he had put on his body, “you've opened my eyes to the differences in this war.” An idea occurred to him, “Tell me, you seemed more troubled by these, rebels, judging by your words.” It had been an effort for him to even refer to his fellow Continentals by the Tory epithet, but he hoped he sounded more natural than anything else. In his mind's eye, he could see his mentor, Sackett, nodding his head, the bobble of his glasses shining in the imaginary light that bathed him.

“I...” Sarah lowered their clasped hands and he leaned back against his pillow, blinking rapidly against the wave of pain from his stomach, but refused to let it show. He still felt oddly prickly hot, but knew that he needed to understand why Sarah Livingston hated the Continentals. If Gamble were to find him here, he would not only have to contend with him, but also possibly Sarah and her Pennsylvania rifle. He vaguely remembered her holding the rifle expertly across her lap when he had first awakened and introduced himself as Reverend Brewster. She _knew_ how to use that rifle and Ben needed to make sure that she remained friendly to him instead of potentially betray him.

“I...” she started again as she looked down at her plain dress, “those brigands...they were soldiers who had been ordered to seize all crops, all supplies and foodstuffs from the area at any cost. They claimed that they were taking it to the Continental winter camp and that there was a greater need for it than we had for it to survive the winter. M-My husband...he protested, and...they shot him. I...found him, much like I found you that night. The doctor was too far away and I watched him die in my arms... When you...when you came, it was one year ago since he had died...so I thought...”

Tears fell down her cheek as Ben looked on. As much as he wanted to reach out and stop those tears, to caress her, to give her a moment of sympathy and comfort, he could not. A well of disgust and of horror had started to grow in him at her words. When she had said that the Continentals had been wintering in the nearby camp, he realized that last winter, they had been at Valley Forge and hundreds of soldiers had died when the supplies had been stolen. Ben also realized that it had been more than likely on his Commander-in-Chief's orders to do so, a temporary measure to ensure that hundreds of more soldiers did not die in the harsh winter. While he had been patrolling the Schuykill River and then counting troop numbers in Boston, this had happened.

And Ben felt a little sick.

Sarah was absently rubbing his knuckles now, her hand gripping his tightly as it sat on her lap. She was staring at nothing in particular and Ben could only stare in sympathy. Even though she was a Tory, he knew that anything he said, even as Reverend Brewster, would stick in his throat, would be a lie, and would possibly turn her against him. And so he said nothing, allowing her the moment to lose herself in her thoughts. Maybe God would give them this one night of peace, but Ben knew that he would have to act soon, because the same sense that enabled him to survive countless ambushes and gave him his sharpshooting gift; something in him told him that he would have to choose – and soon. That his survival would depend on it.

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

Morning came in the form of the loud chirp of a bird, followed by the annoying knocking sound of a woodpecker hunting for bugs. Ben opened his eyes to find something warm pillowed against his legs and pushed himself up a little to see that Sarah had fallen asleep near the foot of the bed, her hands and arms folded near the edges of the bed, her head pillowed across them. It looked like she had knelt on the ground and fell asleep, her Pennsylvania rifle on the floor in front of her.

Ben grimaced a little as he pushed himself up, his eyes feeling scratchy as he wiped his face and found his hands covered in the drenching sweat that indicated he had broken the mild fever that had gripped him after dinner last night. His body felt oddly light, but he knew that it was due to the fever breaking. He needed a quick wash and grimaced a little as he pushed himself further up, hoping to not wake Sarah.

However, she must have been sleeping lightly as he saw her suddenly start a little lifting her head up, and look around. He saw her eyes widen in surprise at the sight of him sitting up before she smiled and he returned it.

“Your fever-”

Ben shook his head as she reached out to touch him and she frowned before noting the sheen on his face and the dampness of his shirt. The cold air in the room chilled the dampness he was feeling and he could feel his skin pucker a little.

“Goodness, you've certainly broken it,” she smiled a little before pushing herself up from the floor and wiping her hands on her the front of her apron, “here, let me go find another clean shirt and get the fire going some more.”

“You have a well?” he asked, hoping for some water to clean himself off with and she nodded.

“In the back, a little to the side of the outhouse,” she said as she went over to the fireplace and started to tend it.

Ben pushed the rest of the blankets and quilt covering him, as he gingerly swung his legs to the ground, breathing through his mouth at the still sharp-shooting pain he felt from his wound. The dampness of last night was gone and Ben realized that Sarah had changed his bandages when he had slept.

“I grew up with two older brothers and had a husband,” Sarah suddenly said from where she was and Ben looked up to see her with a slight smile on her face.

He blushed, feeling the heat rise up in him at the sudden lapse of embarrassment. He still felt that it was perhaps improper of her to have changed his clothes and even dress him, but tried to push the impropriety aside, he would not have survived the night if it was not for her ministrations. “Thank you,” he said as he carefully stood up and found that though his legs felt weak, they supported him better than they had last night.

He glanced at her through his lowered head and saw that she was back tending to the fire, expertly pushing a few of the old embers aside and adding some more kindling. Seeing that she was occupied, he took a few tentative steps towards the direction of the door and found that even though his strength had waned considerably, he was a lot stronger than the night before. Opening the door, he stepped out, hugging his arms to himself at the sudden early-winter gust that had kicked up. He could see frost dotting the ground, whatever rain that had fallen in the past few days icing over and knew that the well would be filled with extremely cold water.

He made his way around the back of the house and saw both the outhouse and the small well that halfway to the outhouse. The evergreen bushes and trees that dotted the area gave at least some leaf cover from the path that passed by the front of the house, but most of the trees were already shedding their late brown-colored leaves. Ben reached the well and was about to pull the rope up when he heard the distant snort of what sounded like a horse and paused, every single one of his instincts going on alert. It looked like it something was coming down the road.

He thought fast as he looked around and walked as quickly as he could to where the outhouse was, hiding behind it. He grimaced at the smell that wafted across his senses, nearly making him gag. He forced himself to ignore it as he peered out to see three people riding down the road, two of them unrecognizable, the other – Gamble. Ben cursed silently in his head as he turned back and gritted his teeth. Of all of the people to have found him and even now. Ben's mind raced as he tried to figure out a way of leading Gamble off of his trail. There was no doubt in his mind that Sarah would mention him as just a simple Reverend that she was caring for, and while she would not know who he really was, he had no doubts that Gamble would know that it was him.

He also did not want Sarah to come to any harm from her ignorance and knew that Gamble would be a man who would torture women or hurt them just to both hurt him and to hunt him down. He had ruthlessly slit Nathaniel Sackett's throat, set up an innocent Continental for the fall; who was to say that he would not hurt Sarah even though she was a Tory. Gamble was a British soldier and he knew that the British only tolerated the Tories as both sources of information and were quick to blame them as Continental sympathizers even though they proclaimed their allegiance to the Crown.

He quickly glanced out again and saw the three approach the cottage as he glanced around him to see if there was anything he could do to draw them off. He spotted a rock and reached down to pick it up. Ben bit back a sudden cry of pain at his own foolish movement before he straightened and hefted the rock. He could hear them dismounting and threw the small rock as hard as possible, a grunt issuing from his lips.

Ben could hear Gamble's voice going on alert, but could not hear what was said before he pushed himself as best as he could against the wall of the outhouse as one of the other men rushed by, musket held in his hand. He could see the man avoid some of the larger branches that littered the ground and realized that he was a hunter of sorts – more than likely not quite a good one, but one who knew the woods a little better than the British soldiers. It stood to reason that the other man Gamble had with him was probably also another local hunter.

He glanced back to see Gamble and the other man had disappeared and grimaced. He had to draw them away from Sarah. Ben shook his head as he realized could almost hear Achilles' admonishment along with his own father's voice in his mind to not do something so foolish. Sarah was an innocent and the first tenet of the Creed was to stay the blade from the flesh of an innocent. He was certainly _not_ going to let some common assassin who did not serve either the Brotherhood or Order hurt Sarah.

Ben put a hand on his wound, hoping that he did not rip his stitching as he pushed himself off the outhouse wall. He ran down the hill, the opposite direction of where he had thrown the rock. The reaction was immediate as he heard a shout to his left and knew he had been spotted by the one who had been sent to see what the noise was. Ben ducked at the sudden sound of a rifle discharging, the musket ball splitting wood close to where he ran and pushed forward.

He could not keep the grimace off of his face as his wound protested his movements, but Ben could hear another voice join them and knew that his actions had at least drawn two of the men away. Whether one of them was Gamble or not, he could not tell by the crunch of leaves and branches he was kicking up, but he knew that if he circled back, he could hopefully at least deal with one man instead of all three. The only question was how was he to make it so that he lost the two on him and double back without being seen? 

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

Ben hoped that the evergreen cover on the ridge of he found himself on was enough to hide him from any one passing by. He supposed that the clothing Sarah had given to him was dark enough to blend into the evergreen. He could feel his wound throbbing, but there was no telltale sign of the stitching ripping since he had ran from the Livingston property to here along the banks of a small stream. It was not the cleverest of misdirection, but it had been something he had learned from his father in one of his 'lessons' that had been disguised as Assassin training. When Ben had been younger, he had thought it a clever idea to draw away any predators like bears or wolves, but knew better now. It _was_ used to draw predators away, but more for the human kind.

He forced himself to quiet his breathing, the harshness of his breath grating on him from the pain of his wound as well as how fast he had run to this area. Not moments later, he heard the crunch of leaves nearby and stilled.

“See him?” Gamble's voice was so close, practically next to the thick evergreen brush cover he was using that Ben thought he could reach out and touch him.

“Not yet,” the voice of one of the hunters was also close before there was a bit of scuffling sound and Ben saw through the cover the man kneeling on the ground. He watched as the hunter brushed away some leaves before righting. “That way sir,” the hunter said, “tracks leading that way.”

“Let's go,” Gamble ordered and Ben heard them move away.

He dared not make any movements, knowing that at this critical juncture, the snap of a branch or the crackle of leaves would give him away. Ben stared at nothing in particular before he heard the excited shout of the hunter and finally let himself relax ja little as he smiled.

They had found his misdirection. Two scraps of cloth that he had ripped from the shirt Sarah had given to him. One was covered a bit in sweat, the other from the slight drip of blood that was healing from his wound. He had made the tears look like they were from patching up his own wound that had supposedly ripped during his escape. Ben twisted in his crouch and hefted another stone he had picked up from the brook. He stood up, seeing their distant forms further down the stream and threw the stone as hard as he could, grimacing at the pull of his wound.

The stone sailed straight into the brook and made a splashing sound. To his good fortune, it had also started several deer that had been apparently approaching the stream. Their startled and agitated honks were belied by their sudden departure and crash through the woods.

“He's there,” he heard Gamble say as Ben ducked back down before the sound of splashing echoed across the area and Ben finally breathed a sigh of relief. They were headed deeper down the stream, thinking that he had used it to try to mask his tracks. He was safe for now.

Ben stood up and waited two heartbeats before taking off in the opposite direction, back to the Livingston house. He lightly re-traced his steps, mindful of the crunch of branches and dead leaves. He arrived in short order to where the outhouse was and headed over to another small ridge that overlooked the house, hoping he could at least see the man that had been left behind. Ben scrabbled over small rocks and leaf cover as he reached the small ridge and crouched as he surveyed the house. He could not see any sign of the other hunter that had been left behind- There! He spotted the other man pacing a few steps back and forth in the front, seemingly bored as he held his rifle slung across a shoulder.

Ben slid down the ridge quietly, gritting his teeth at the jarring movement it put on his wound. He approached the back of the house, his senses alert in case the hunter was aware of his presence as he scanned the area for anything he could use as a weapon. He knew he could not risk close-quarters fighting, not with his wound. Any blow to it would hinder his ability to fight back and even now, it still throbbed with the recent exertions he put on it. He spotted a jagged looking rock and picked it up, hefting it in his hand. It was larger than the stones he had used to throw off Gamble in the woods, but it would have to do.

Ben squared his shoulders and breathed out quietly as he slowly approached the left side of the house. He could hear the muffle sound of Sarah inside and hoped that she was all right and that Gamble did not hurt her. He was not sure if she now knew of his deception, but he hoped that he could at least incapacitate, if not kill the hunter that was minding the horses and waiting, without her knowledge. He could then steal one of the horses and leave without anyone the wiser until it was too late. He did not want to leave her under such circumstances, but Ben could not risk his own cover nor could he risk anything else. She had already announced her allegiance to the Crown and he did not want her to suffer anymore for harboring a Patriot even under duplicitous circumstances. She had suffered enough, there was no need for him to add to her suffering anymore.

He pressed himself against the side of the house until he was just towards the edge where the front and side met. He could hear the ambling steps of the hunter who was wandering and closed his eyes briefly. Whispering a silent prayer to God to give him good fortune, Ben opened his eyes and brought his rock up to bear just as the hunter stepped into his line of attack.

He slammed the rock into the man's face just as he saw his eyes widen before they rolled back up into his head, blood gushing out of the wound he had given to him. Ben's hands were immediately coated in the sticky thick liquid as the smell of metal filled his nose. His other hand immediately grasped onto the front of the man's shirt and jacket as he let go of his rock and slowly lowered him to the ground. He grunted a little as he hefted the weight of the hunter and his own protesting wound, before finally collapsing to the ground almost on top of him.

Ben immediately looked around to see if anyone heard anything, but did not hear anything amiss. He looked back down at the man and started to strip him of his jacket, putting his rifle to the side to use later. He unstrapped the man's musket ball pouch and powder along with his hunting knife and strapped the belt onto his own waist, wincing as the belt pressed against his gut wound. Ignoring the flare of pain, he turned the hunter's body to the side and shucked his jacket off of him, hearing something tear, but surmised that it was probably the inner threads.

Ben finished taking the man's jacket off and stuck his own arms through, the warmth of the jacket immediately giving him some relief from the chill he had been feeling since he had left the warm confines of the cabinet. He checked to make sure the man's belt was secure on him and grabbed the hunting knife's handle to check its sharpness before he froze, the distinctive cocking of a hammer being drawn back echoing behind him.

Ben instinctively drew the hunting knife as he looked up and nearly dropped it at the sight of Sarah holding her Pennsylvania rifle in his face. There was a cold, hurt expression on her face and her grip on the rifle was unwavering.

“How could you?!” she whispered, her voice tight with anger and betrayal as Ben slowly stood up, hoping that he did not die by a musket ball right then and there. The barrel of the rifle followed his movements, but it seemed like Sarah was not inclined to shooting at the moment.

“My name is Major Benjamin Tallmadge of the Continental Army,” Ben said, marveling at how steady his own voice was, “I wasn't exactly lying with what I told you last night. My father was a Reverend-”

“You...” she glared at him, “you _lied_. You...you-”

“I am sorry Sarah, for your loss,” Ben interrupted, “I did not know at what lengths the army would have gone to for the missing and stolen supplies last winter-”

“My _husband_ died! He died! For your godforsaken war!” she nearly shouted, her grip wavering just a little bit, “and now...?!”

“I'm sorry,” Ben knew his apology was not the best he could do, but he could not say anything else, “I didn't meant to lie, but-”

“That man, Gamble, whatever his name, said you _killed_ a Reverend! A man of _God!”_

Ben pressed his lips into a thin line. He knew that if he kept apologizing, Sarah was more than likely to shoot him, but he also knew that if he told the truth, maybe he would have a better chance of not being shot. From the brief time that he knew her, she liked firm convictions and forgiveness in the eyes of God. She was a true and devout woman of the Bible and of all of the teachings his father had taught him as a Reverend was to always admit the truth. He nodded once, “Yes. I did.”

It seemed his hunch was correct and Ben thanked the niggling sixth sense he had that seemed to get him out of danger more than once. Sarah's expression was one of shock, but he saw the rifle lower just a hair at his admission of the truth.

“Y-You...” he could see the disgust on her face and a part of him that found her pretty wished that it was not there. She was a woman who should not have such an expression. He saw her flick a look at the body of the hunter he had stripped of his clothing and weapons. “I-Is he...?”

“No,” he replied before indicating with a tilt of his head at the rock he had dropped to the side, “I hit him, but not hard enough to kill.”

She swallowed, visibly struggling to keep her composure, “I...I didn't want it to be the truth- That the officer was lying-”

“That man killed my mentor, my friend in Washington's camp. He is a _snake_ in the field of grass, a viper that has no place in Eden nor in the earthly grounds of this world,” Ben said heatedly.

“Are you going to kill me now?” she asked, her tone blunt and cold and all of the anger he had for Gamble rushed out of him as he blinked, surprised. He realized that he had raised the hunting knife in an unconscious defensive stance, blade nestled close to his hand and wrist, pointed outward as if it was a hidden blade of sorts.

“N-No-”

“Then get out,” she looked like she was on the verge of crying, tears forming at the corner of her eyes, “get out and don't ever come back. I do not want to see your face ever again.”

“Y-You're-”

“Get out!” she half-shouted, taking a step back and Ben tentatively moved, watching her and her rifle carefully before she gestured with a jerk of her rifle for him to get going.

He knew it was a risk, but turned and sheathed the hunting knife as he made for one of the horses left behind and got onto it. Wheeling it around, he gave her a long apologetic look before spurring the horse. As he galloped away, he could only feel the sadness and remorse of what he had done to Sarah Livingston by lying to her face. She had been an innocent and he had swept her up in this whole debacle. He had failed the first tenet of the Creed.

 

~END~

 


End file.
